If I could run, I'd fly away,
Ingest the arid sores of sand,
Sweat the stagnant torrid floods,
Mole the sacrificial concrete tombs.
I'd absorb and enter the sphere, 
Accept the tumid understanding
Though it envelop me.

But if running be such wholesome task,
I must crawl into routine space
To contemplate awhile the deep colours
Of others' dreams. Surely the first duty
Is to swim as sap, and wake to day 
As a bud, dazed by its consciousness
Yet knowing its purpose,
To slither, to glide, yet to belong.

So much I preach:
But sermons clang on metal,
Or fuse as aliens, too separate, too glib.
My prospect is not even so great.
What hope then for wind-blown spore
To settle on the brochure land,
When technicolour dreams splice the eye
That sees no neighbour decaying.